Page 7 of Playing Mr. Perfect

Amber blushes. “That’s the power of love, too.”

“More like lust,” I say, realizing after the fact that she was responding to Morgyn, not talking about me ogling Clay. The man really does make my brain misfire.

“To lust!” Brindle raises her glass, and they all drink as another song comes to an end.

We cheer along with the roar of the crowd, and the band starts playing one of our favorite songs. My sisters and I break into a hip-swaying, shoulder-rocking dance.

Brindle dances closer to me and says, “You and Clay looked awfully cozy in the limo, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we got here.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.” My nerves prickle with the lie, but thanks to the alcohol, the anxiety doesn’t take hold.

“When it comes to lust, I’m never wrong. But I guess we’re about to find out,” Brindle says just as I hear the guys behind me.

“Sable’s kicking ass out there,” Trace says as he wraps his arms around Brindle from behind and kisses her cheek. “Just like old times, huh, Mustang? Want to sneak off and find a dark corner like we used to at concerts?”

“Heck yeah,” Brindle exclaims, eyeing her ruggedly handsome cowboy over her shoulder. “Right after Sable’s done with her set.”

“I’d like to see you strutting across a stage, Sunshine,” Graham says as he drapes his arm around Morgyn.

“You find me a stage, and I’ll totally do that for you.” Morgyn goes up on her toes and kisses him.

Amber waggles her finger at Dash and says, “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t do stages or dark corners at concerts.”

Dash laughs. “That’s just one of the many things I love about you.”

As he lowers his lips to hers, I feel myself teetering on longing for what my sisters have. Not just the love, but their friendships with their husbands. The part that appears to take no effort at all for them. I realize with an unexpected pang of disappointment that Clay didn’t join us. I turn to see if he’s still with those women and see him closing in on me with a drink in each hand, watching me so intently, my chest flutters.

His penetrating gaze never wavers from mine as he hands me a glass. Our fingers brush, and a zing of electricity shoots up my arm. He leans in so close, his breath warms my cheek as he says, “You were looking a little thirsty.”

The way he said thirsty made it sound like an innuendo, sending my thoughts back to when I googled him and found pictures captioned Thirsty Thursday. He was shirtless, wearing those tight football pants, pouring water over his head after a game like some kind of fan porn.

Now I really do need that drink.

“Thank you. As a matter of fact, I am thirsty.” Still caught up in the image of him shirtless, it comes out flirtier than I intend, but I kind of like the way I sound. I haven’t flirted in so long, I’d forgotten how uplifting it can be, so I go with it and take a sip of my drink, telling myself not to overthink the situation. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I had to heal my bruised ego after offering to be your date and getting turned down.”

“I didn’t realize you were so fragile,” I tease.

“Am I? Or was I trying to make you jealous?”

“I can’t imagine Mr. Perfect trying to make anyone jealous.”

The muscles in his jaw bunch, but in the next second he cocks a brow in amusement. “I guess that means it didn’t work.”

I shake my head, laughing softly. He steps closer, sliding his hand to my lower back, sending my pulse sprinting. I eye him curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Entering your personal space.”

“I can feel that. The question is, why?”

“Because I want your personal space to be mine.”

God, this guy is never at a loss for a comeback. “That’s not really how personal space works.”

“It is now.”

As cheesy as his lines are, I find the fact that he never runs out of them oddly intriguing. “You’re awfully cocky.”